On the edge of a burning light
by waywardcherry
Summary: Part 3 of the "In the cold, cold night" series for Quitt Week. It's a new year in many, many ways.


**AN:** Final installment of the Quittmas series, I might revisit it at some point. It takes place a year after part 2. Thank you all for reading!

..

Santana laughs in Quinn's face so hard she just_ lies_ on top of the kitchen counter holding her stomach. Her knee-high boots would be _in_ the sink if it wasn't for the embroidered dish towel stopping the heels at the edge. It was a present from Mike's mom and he would probably cry if he saw this right now. "Bitch, you made me spill," she wheezes out, wiping her chin and then the corner of her eye with the back of one hand, the other dangling off the counter with her beer. "Holy shit, I'm gonna pass out."

Quinn rolls her eyes and rests her hip next to Santana's head. "It's not funny, asshole."

"Oh, but it is."

It's not a good idea that her elbow is so close to Santana's nose right now, just the right amount of force and—

"Such an innocent soul, my Quinnie."

"Don't call me that," she barks and casts her eyes down to where Santana's leather jacket is about to open. "And for God's sake, control your breasts, nobody wants to see that."

"Uh, excuse you, my tits are magnificent," she says, adjusting her cleavage just so and crossing her legs at the knees. She looks like she's posing for a leather catalogue. She takes a sip of her beer and raises her eyebrows at Quinn. "Q, seriously. Take it from me, I've known her all my life, inside out. It's not a _kiss_ she wants tonight. Hell, even _I_ can kiss you at midnight—"

She pauses as the click of heels on the linoleum stands out from the cacophony of the party and it turns out to be Rachel, empty wine glass in hand, crossing the kitchen straight to the fridge. "I heard that," she says, giving them a sideways glance as she uncorks the bottle.

"—but I _won't_, because I'll be busy making out with my personal hobbit."

"_Good_. What are you even _doing_ up there?"

"Quinn nearly killed me with an insane joke and I couldn't find a fucking chair."

Rachel's eyes bug out and her hands fly to Santana's knees. "_Santana_! You're flashing the entire party!"

Well, this should be interesting. Quinn brings the straw of her tequila sunrise back to her lips and watches Santana not move anything but her eyes, which roll—epically. "I'm wearing pants, Berry, because your crazy ass told me to."

Rachel reaches for Santana's beer, who doesn't hand it over. "Okay, you say Berry, you're drunk enough."

"No, it's when you annoy me—which you _are_, right now. _Stop it_!" She secures the bottle back and Rachel rests her hands on her hips, looking every bit like the psycho she first met in glee club.

"_Fine_. I'll be dancing when you start crying, so you know where to find me." She and Santana are basically having a stare-off (it always happens, sometimes she thinks they haven't grown past twelve) when Britt waltzes into the room and interrupts. Santana snorts and Quinn nearly drops her glass. Her hands are shaking and—how can this _be_, really? This girl has been her friend all her life, she has seen her at her worst and—oh Jesus, there goes her straw and it sets Santana off again.

Rachel looks between them over the rim of her wine glass and Quinn does her best to nonchalantly pick the straw back up from where it fell on the counter (the damn thing kind of did a backflip and ended up near the toaster). Britt twists the cap off a bottle of beer and it's like the sound is so familiar to Santana that she just raises her own and they clink, even though she probably can't see a thing through her tears of laughter. (So help her God, there won't be murder tonight.) Quinn feels _all_ of Brittany on leaning on her side and focuses on the straw. "You're not putting that back in your drink, are you?" Rachel pipes in and oh, _now_ Santana looks up at them with that dumb, patronizing face that Quinn would punch if she weren't feeling Britt's beer-cold lips flutter on the back of her ear. "I'll be out there dancing," she whispers and leaves with a light squeeze to Quinn's hip. It's like everything's frozen and Rachel breaks the silence, "Okay, what is with you two?"

"Ooh, can I tell?" Santana swivels her body around on the counter and sits up, dangling her legs off the edge. Quinn rolls her eyes, because, realistically, she wouldn't be able to get a word in edgewise anyway. "This is Quinn and Britt's first official date."

Rachel looks a tad surprised. "You've been living together a year, I saw you this past summer and—"

"_Nothing happened_," Quinn clarifies. Well, it hadn't. She just shielded Brittany's breasts with her hands in the pool when her bikini suddenly snapped. That's being a friend. And a _very _dedicated roommate. (With very, very dirty thoughts and a complete inability to block them.) "To be fair, we've been together…ish for a few weeks—"

"Bullshit," Santana interrupts. "You've been sleeping together."

"_Sleeping_. We share a bed. She hasn't slept in her room for a while now," she says, looking at Rachel, who's much less privy to the goings on in this house than Santana is.

"But…" Rachel furrows her brow. "I don't get what's actually _happening_ here."

"Q thinks they're kissing at midnight," Santana sing-songs, that bitch, and makes this saccharine face that has Rachel pursing her lips and tilting her head at her girlfriend. She doesn't know whether these two are sharing a cute moment or if Santana's about to infect Rachel with the collective mockery of Quinn's situation. And before Rachel can aww at this, Quinn raises a hand and says, "That's what's customary, you _kiss_ people at midnight, we're on a date, end of story."

"Quinn," Rachel says carefully and—seriously, is this condescending crap contagious now?—"Brittany most certainly does _not_ want just a kiss at midnight."

"Why does _everything_ have to be about sex with you two?" And given the utterly confused look they share, she decides that she hates them both right now and stomps away into the living room, drink forgotten. The room basically consists of dancers climbing up the walls to hip hop. Like Mike and Brittany, their friends are also the kind of people who find joy in pushing their own bodies to the brink of the humanly impossible. It's fascinating to watch sometimes—when she doesn't feel a hundred years old for not being able to keep up with basic workouts since her accident. She can pull off a few dance moves, sure, but her body begs for a chair and some hydration every half hour or so.

At least Santana's stopped calling her Crips. (Took her a few years, but Rachel going from pale to beet red in the span of 4 seconds every time Santana said that eventually got through to her. One thing to thank Berry for, ironically.)

She catches Brittany's eyes at the very end of the room, where they knocked down floor to ceiling built-in shelves to put in a ballet bar and mirrors. The room looks like a dancing studio that happens to have a couch and an entertainment unit pushed to the far left. Right now, Brittany's walking on the bar like she's about to do a backflip (dear Lord in Heaven, _not again_) and people are egging her on. Brittany winks at her and tilts her head, inviting her over. Quinn smiles and shakes her head, pointing to her own knee. Britt nods in understanding and Quinn searches for Mike in the crowd, who seems to have read her mind mind given the way he just pops up from behind her hugging a few liquor bottles to his chest. "Help me out here."

He hands her a few of them and she tries not to sound that panicked when she asks, "She's not trying a backflip again, is she?"

"Uhhh, no, Johanna's about to hand her a few of your heaviest photojournalism books so she can prove she can make it all the way to the end of the bar balancing them on her head."

She shoves the bottles back into his arms. "Something needs to be done about your girlfriend," she says as she stalks off towards Brittany.

"Because she'll end up killing yours?" She can _hear_ the smirk in his voice—even as he's about to drop a bottle of vodka on her mother's rug.

"_Can_ it, Mike."

..

So it's about five or six minutes to midnight. Almost an hour since Mike, Brittany and eight of their friends dragged a liquor-soaked rug out to the trash chute and nearly forty minutes since Rachel stormed out of the kitchen yelling at Santana about something or other and plopped down next to Quinn on the couch. (Santana's whereabouts: unknown. Root cause of the fight: unknown due to lack of interest.) She tuned Rachel out a few minutes ago, the burst of excitement in front of them as they all wait to ring in the new year is much more enthralling than whatever drivel it is that Rachel's going on about.

Also missing in action: Brittany.

Quinn keeps tapping her fingers on the stem of the champagne glass she was handed but has yet to drink, her eyes darting across the room and occasionally at the hallway and kitchen area, looking for signs of her—see, this is the thing. She can't produce the word girlfriend in her mind, at least not in reference to Brittany. She's… _Brittany_. Her friend, her former minion, her savior, her roommate. The one she shares a bed with every night and kisses when the time feels right. The same Brittany who asked her to be her date on a New Years Eve party at their house. And, by all accounts, expects—

"I'm right! I'm _so_ right, aren't I?" Rachel's eyes halt her thought process they're so big. The best course of action is to agree with Rachel Berry at all times, especially when drunk. Quinn would not like a certain cuddling situation from junior year to be repeated—Rachel gets ways too clingy and then they fall asleep and Santana yells. It's not fun for anybody. After a nod, Rachel continues, finger pointed at Quinn's nose, "Of course I am. When am I ever _not _right?"

If she had a dollar…

"It's almost midnight, I might have to kiss _you_ and I don't _want_ to," she wipes at the corner of her eye. "No offense."

"None taken," she's not sure she's properly hiding the disgust on her face. "None at all."

"What if I just decide that—" She suddenly turns her body around on the couch, making Quinn do the same. They're faced with a weeping Santana, with her head hung down, being guided by a serious Brittany.

"Baby…" Rachel whispers (or whines—she can't be sure). Britt parts Santana's hair a little and asks, "Do you wanna say something?"

Her _tone_. It's doing things to her and… She gulps almost at the same time as Santana, who just sniffles and says, "I'm sorry."

This is one of those moments she wonders how Rachel's never been drafted to the Cheerios. Her body moves to fast and attaches itself so perfectly to Santana's body in one breath that she has to take a moment and appreciate what's happening—even if Santana and Rachel making up after an inexistent argument is basically an everyday occurrence. Santana weeps into Rachel's neck and they're making sounds that are supposed to be words, but the tears, the alcohol and the overall sound of the countdown to midnight completely drown them out. Britt is standing there, hands linked in front of her, looking prouder than she's ever seen her.

They're now almost a minute into 2017, everyone around them is cheering and kissing and all Quinn and Brittany have done is stare at a couple that fights and make up probably about seventeen times a day. And a little bit at each other, she won't deny that.

Screw this. _Or_—she winces when she thinks she could've phrased it better. "What?" Britt asks, lowering her head to level with Quinn's. Her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. Did she say that out loud? "Nothing. I need to talk to you," she basically yells into Brittany's ear over the eruption of cheers in the room.

..

Quinn's bedroom door clicks but it doesn't do much to drown out the sound of the party outside. There's thrumming in the walls and her heart. There's an impossibly beautiful, unfailingly kind and patient girl sitting on the edge of her bed, just using all of her might to focus on what Quinn has to say. She can almost _see_ the gears in Britt's head in motion, ready to absorb everything and understand. You can see it in her stance. Hands folded between her knees, ankles crossed, chin lowered, eyebrows knit together.

"You're amazing," is what escapes Quinn's lips.

Brittany doesn't seem to understand why, but takes the compliment with a smile. "Well, thanks. So are you."

Quinn takes a few steps forward. "You asked me out."

Britt's eyes roll and a 'duh' is left unsaid. "I figured it's about time, you usually don't get with people unless they ask you out. And we've been doing everything backwards, this must be _so_ confusing." She scratches the back of her neck and that's when Quinn notices that her shirt is tied around her shorts and she is down to a striped bra Quinn recognizes.

"Is that mine?"

Brittany looks down. "No, my boobs are bigger than yours. I liked what you were wearing to bed the other day and I got myself one. Is that okay?"

Quinn giggles. "Yes." They wore the same clothes every day for years, she's beyond caring about these things. She's more concerned with the fact that she's forgotten what she had to say when confronted with a partially naked girl.

"Quinn."

"Huh?"

"You're staring."

"I am."

"Come here."

Her feet just move and she's sitting next to Britt, suddenly shy and not quite sure where to place her hands. Britt just takes one between her own and Quinn shivers at the delicate tracing of her fingers. She closes her eyes to feel that and only that. She's taken aback for a second by the faint smell of cherry chapstick pressing on her lips, so familiar by now that she parts them to catch Britt's bottom lip and trace her tongue lightly on it, the way it always elicits a hum so soft it's like a smile. She feels that smile and it's one of her favorite things to experience. "Happy New Year" comes out barely audible in a warm breath and she whispers it back, grasping a little more firmly at the hand she's holding and deepening the kiss for a while longer.

Britt kisses the corner of her mouth and stays there for a moment. "This is tradition, right?"

Quinn snorts. "Right."

"Okay, so now that's out of the way, I have a question for you."

She nods. Is she ready? The bed is right here and—

"Will you be my girlfriend?"

Of all the things she thought this was leading up to… "What? I thought—"

"We're being traditional because we screwed with your tradition too much already. By the way, we need to go back to church on Sundays, my friend Glen took my mom to that one down the street last time she was in town and she really liked it, so we should go there."

"Britt."

"And you need to go back to physical therapy," she says, tracing a delicate touch to the scar below Quinn's left ear. "You haven't been since you moved here and I can't have you all creaky and in pain in the winter, it's too sad. You need to take care of yourself, you matter too much to me."

She can feel her voice failing when she tries to speak. "So I should be your girlfriend first."

"Yes. We already live together and sleep on the same bed, I haven't changed my sheets in two months, I think."

Quinn's laugh comes out kind of broken. "Oh my God, Britt."

"It's like part of my closet now, I think I lost one of my eyeliners there, I should check under the magazine stack."

"So I should be your girlfriend."

"Yes. Then we'll get a cat."

"No."

Britt's face falls. "You can't be my girlfriend?"

Quinn squeezes her hand. "No, I don't wanna get a cat. Yes, I'll be your girlfriend."

It's not the kind of facial expression she expected in this kind of situation, but the pouty 'Okay', Quinn figures, one day might be the death of her.


End file.
